| Well how you feelin' Ad Rock? |
| Well I’m feelin' well
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| Bonafide, qualified, with a story to tell
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| Well how you feelin' Mike D? |
| Well I feel all good
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| All day is how we play in the neighborhood
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| Well how you feelin' MCA? |
| Well I feel right
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| I speak my words on the track 'cause the track sound tight
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| So if you’re feelin' good and you’re feelin' right
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| Uh, somebody step up and grab the mic
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| Well hello everybody and how you been?
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| It’s Ad Rock rappin' on the microphone again
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| I got grace, class, style, finesse and debonaire
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| Murdalize motherfuckers 'cause I just don’t care
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| The MC whisperer, kinda like a trainer
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| I take sucker rappers, I put 'em through a strainer
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| Like macaroni 'cause the shit sound cheesy
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| Watch how it’s done boy, it looks easy
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| The nonstop, goin' off, kingpin, microphone boss
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| Do my own thing, you can’t afford the cost
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| Of my rhyme style that complete the turnstile
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| 'Cause it’s live and direct, and I’m wicked and wild
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| Back on the roll, I got total control
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| I flow like the water out your toilet bowls
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| Your style is cheap boy, just like a Dutch
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| You know you’re not smokin' on the microphone much
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| There’s a certain special talent that I never lack
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| Ha-ha! |
| And that’s a fact
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| 'Cause we shine like the chrome on a Cadillac
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| You better break a wishbone 'cause we never wack
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| Said we’re never that, and that is that
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| And we’re the nonstop disco powerpack
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| Uh, that’s right, we go all night
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| Who gonna be next to bless the mic?
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| Now this is the way we run it down
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| We’re gettin' you high on the funky sound
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| This is the way we get it on
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| B-Boys in the house 'til the break of dawn
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| See I mix my style up like a cement mixer
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| Smooth and fix ya like a rhyme elixir
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| Hey yo yo soundman, make Mike’s mic louder
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| Don’t make me sound cheap like a box of douche powder
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| I’ll max and relax, champagne, mojito
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| Don’t go commando, don’t know bandito
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| Je m’appelle Michel, Perignon
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| Me and Claude in the chateau, we got it goin' on
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| Quincy’s in the hot tub like it’s '73
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| Lookin' over his shoulder and he’s lookin' at me
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| I’m all white in the face, towel around my waist
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| What’s up with that watch inside the glass case?
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| I go to make my move, sneak out the place
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| Undetected, not leavin' a trace
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| Party’s done, microphone wrecked
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| Wine’s been drunk, and head’s been checked
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| I see one last profiterole, I make my play
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| And pass the microphone to MCA
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| Nonstop, On the top, and you clock, then we rock
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| Never fakin', no mistakin', we be makin' hip hop
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| So c’mon everybody get down
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| Now it’s a spot check, hit the deck count down
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| 'Cause I’ma break it down for ya how we run it down
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| Pound for pound, keep the basslines round
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| See you watchin', clockin', jockin' my sound
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| But for real, I’m real glad I grew up with hip hop
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| Still got mad love for a record called Beat Bop
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| It mean a lot spinnin' on my Walkman
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| Shout out to the Afrika Bam'
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| And to the S to the P the double-O-N-Y
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| The one MC, who you can’t deny
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| I’d listen to the records and they’d inspire
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| Sit down to write and the pen blazed fire
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| Construct a rhyme with specific intent
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| Flowin' from the braincells right through the pen
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| And then I put the book down, grab ahold the mic
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| Words flowin' so cold, turn water to ice
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| Come through the wire saturate the tape
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| You put me in the mix nice it up at the plate
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| And then they press it on wax, sell it in the store
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| The DJ’s spin the record out on the dancefloor
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| Comin' through the speakers to shake your eardrum
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| Braincells get lit, then you hear where we’re comin' from
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| Ad Rock, huh, get it on
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| We gonna rock the house until the break of dawn
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| Now Mike D, huh, get it on
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| We gonna rock the house until the break of dawn
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| And MCA, yeah, get it on
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| We gonna rock the house until the break of dawn
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| Beastie Boys in the house, don’t stop |